


Like a Song

by revengesong



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Amaurot (Final Fantasy XIV), Dancing, Drinking, Gen, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-08
Updated: 2019-11-08
Packaged: 2021-01-25 18:42:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21360904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/revengesong/pseuds/revengesong
Summary: You’re trying to ruffle him, to get under his skin. But mostly you’re now desperate to know if Emet-Selch, the Architect, ever got wild on the dance floor.
Relationships: Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch & Warrior of Light
Comments: 10
Kudos: 47





	Like a Song

Amaurot sounds like song. The shape of its name in your mouth, the soft echoes of the figures that float through the dark, the resonance in the city that strikes at you like a bell. Like an avalanche. Like tectonic plates grinding beneath your skin reverberating deep and driving something familiar up to the surface. 

There’s music. 

Not music in the way you would normally think of. No melody, no real rhythm. No notes or instruments or voices carrying a tune. But every step you take in this place thrums through you and you realize it’s a melody. Something that hums through your bones and in your bloodstream and the longer it’s there you know (you know, like maybe you’ve always known) that it’s always been there. 

The wine isn’t very good - sweet and acrid on your tongue, but you drink it anyway. It fits your mood. Offsets it. What better to pair with a shitty red wine than an existential crisis with a side of creeping dread. The bottle is half empty and you’ve only just started. Below you the city stretches out and above is the improbable ocean. You don’t look up. You drink. 

You hear his footsteps presumably because he wants you to hear them. You’ve learned to detect the sensation of his arrival - like a change in altitude paired with a breeze, your ears almost popping so you have to yawn to break free of it. It isn’t pleasant or unpleasant, but it is him. Just like he is. Distinctive - and not pleasant or unpleasant. The shift of your shoulders is instinctual but not defensive. You’ve long since accepted that he can’t be trusted but isn’t immediately trying to kill you. If he wanted to, you would certainly be dead. And you think your lack of concern ruffles him the wrong way just a little. 

Good, you think, smirking against the mouth of the bottle. He ruffles you the wrong way a lot, so it’s only fair that the favor gets returned. 

“Oh isn’t this a grim revelry? Lurking in the rooftops and drinking alone. Didn’t want any of your little friends to see you like this?” There’s a lack of venom in the words. Less mockery than you would expect. There’s a tug on the bottle as it’s pulled from your hands, leaving you to sputter and cover your mouth before you dribble wine all over yourself. You look up then, turning at the waist to take in the entirety of the slouched figure there. 

You don’t let yourself think too much about the fact that your eyes know right where to go. They don’t have to search to settle immediately on his face. He’s studying the label on the wine, sniffing at the open mouth of it and pulling a disgusted face that makes you laugh. Laugh at him. A fact he seems to catch onto immediately as he casts you a wary look. The hunch of his shoulders seems to tense for a moment and you cluck at him, enjoying the reversal. Enjoying not needing to be grim for just a moment. 

Without realizing it you’re smiling. How long has it been since you’ve smiled without pain in the expression? Without it being for someone else's benefit? 

His pale eyes squint at you and he pushes the bottle back into your beckoning hand. Your fingers curl and start to grip but he lets go just a bit too early and though your reflexes are good you are tired and a little drunk and distracted by the way one corner of his mouth draws up when he looks at you, like he’s holding a secret tucked in there between his tongue and the inside of his cheek. The bottle slips through your hand and crashes onto the rooftop, shattering on the stone and soaking the legs of your pants. 

With a yelp you scramble to your feet, shards of glass the color of Amaurot ocean-sky crunching under your heels. You’re not drunk enough to appreciate the imagery. 

“Godsdammit.” You mutter with no venom, sidestepping away from broken glass and shaking wine from your cuffs. The urge to blame him rises in the back of your throat on a tide of acidic liquor and subsides almost immediately when you glance up to see him looking at you, arms crossed. One side of his mouth is still pulled up into a quirk like he’s prepared for your anger and frustration. Like he wants to catch it between his teeth and spit back banter. Like he’s itching to get a rise out of you. 

You don’t want to fight. There's no appeal to sniping flat words back and forth across each other's bows trying to get a blow in that will sting. There’s been so much fighting that for once… for once you want to turn a shoulder to it. So you do. You do something you wouldn’t have done weeks or months or years (has it been years?) ago; You turn your back on the Ascian.

Walking to the edge of the roof you climb up onto the ledge and lean against a decorative bit of architecture. Crossing your arms you look out (not down) and half-turn your head to quip back over your shoulder. “You owe me another bottle.” 

Emet-Selch laughs and you feel the hairs on the back of your neck prickle. There’s a hint of mockery there and you brace yourself for whatever taunting is going to happen but it never comes, leaving you tense and strangely disappointed. Instead there’s that sound/sensation of his teleportation and the ripple of it flutters against your clothes as he goes from where he’s standing to where you’re standing. Less than three fulms away and casually slumped against the other parapet he sighs and extends something in your direction. You resist the urge to look for all of five seconds.

It’s a wine bottle. Amber glass obscuring the contents. The label shows a pair of abstract figures twisted together at the bottom and separating as they branch upwards, arms raised above their heads. Between their hands they cradle a crescent moon tipped onto its back with stars spilling from it like an overfull bowl. You can’t read the text on the label but suddenly you know. You know it’s your favorite wine. Know even as you take it from him and lift it to your mouth (he’s thoughtfully already drawn the cork, let it breathe, let it ripen) that you’ve never put anything better to your lips. 

The bottle is full and heavy and a little awkward to heft but you manage it with both hands to take that first sip. The first drink. It’s just like you expected it to be only so much better than that. Rich and full bodied, nothing cloying or too sweet. You’re no sommelier but even if you were the hints and high notes are lost on you. Fruit you’ve never heard of. Earth you’ve never smelled. Your eyes start to close as you tip the bottle further back.

He watches you, arms crossed, his expression surprisingly bereft of amusement. Only interest. Until he reaches over abruptly and pulls the bottle from you again. This time you do spill wine down your front and swear a little more earnestly. 

“Why?!” You sound plaintive and can’t even bring yourself to be mad about it. Emet-Selch is examining the gift, his gloved hands cradling it with a level of care that gives you pause. He lifts an eyebrow and glances towards you as you resist the urge to try and snatch it back, your fingers curling into fists at your sides. Like a sullen child about to stomp their feet and hurl themselves into a temper tantrum. 

“If you’re just drinking to get drunk I could find you something less precious. A rotgut more befitting your intentions.” One of his hands lifts, fingers poised ready to snap and you shake your head, taking a half step forward. 

“No, don’t.” You say quickly, the plea scraping the lingering taste of that wine off of your tongue.To your own ears you sound desperate. To his ears too, apparently, as he pauses. Eyebrow arched. Taunting but waiting. 

You draw in a deep breath, looking at the bottle with an ache in your chest that strangely feels like homesickness. You’re not drunk enough for this. You’re not sober enough for it either. Glancing back to his face you can’t even find the room to be annoyed by his expression. You realize that of all the people that could have sought you out, only he did. 

“Would you like to have a drink with me, Emet-Selch?” You extend your hand in a welcoming gesture, pushing through the air. Encouraging him to keep the bottle. His expression flickers and you can’t be certain what you saw but it seems like surprise and a hint of satisfaction and you hope that it was both of those. 

The two of you sit on the edge of the roof, side by side (almost shoulder to shoulder) in the crenels between the parapets (terms he explains to you as you settle in- a crennelated wall like the battlements on the tops of castles). You pass the wine between you, the warmth of it reaching down into your limbs and settling in your stomach and flooding out the previous drink, shattered and drying up on the ground behind you. 

At first neither of you say much. And then you point at a building close by. One you haven’t had reason to search. Lower than the others around it, nestled close to the ground. “What’s that?” 

He makes a sound like ‘hmm?’ glancing at you then following the line of your extended arm until he figures out what you’re indicating. There’s no immediate answer and you reach over, knuckles knocking into his arm in prompting. To answer you and to pass over the bottle, both of which he obligingly does. 

“It was a gathering hall for artistic events. Mostly music. Less formal than the theater.” He lowers his hands to hold the edges of the roof as he leans forward and you find yourself gasping, reaching out and hooking your hand around his upper arm. A vision of him tumbling over and towards the ground spins in your mind but no such thing happens. Instead he looks at you, bemused at your concern. Your hand withdraws to return to the bottle so you can lift it up for another sip.

“So like a club.” You cut your gaze towards him while you drink and he pulls a face that almost makes you snort. Instead you grin against the glass while you take a draught then offer it back to him, still smirking as he sulkily plucks it from you. 

“If you must use such pedestrian terms then yes. Like a club.” It’s your turn then to laugh as you lean back against the parapet, folding your arms loosely while giving him a cocky smile. 

“What’s wrong with it being a club? Clubs are community. Enjoying other people’s company. Was there dancing? Did all the Amaurotines get wild?” You lean over again, lifting your own eyebrows and lowering your voice conspiratorially. “Did you have moves? I bet you did.” 

You’re trying to ruffle him, to get under his skin. But mostly you’re now desperate to know if Emet-Selch, the Architect, ever got wild on the dance floor. You feel a little surge of pride as he begins a very long drink from the bottle. A wild fancy takes you and you swing your legs around to hop back onto the roof, your hand going out and grabbing onto his arm again as you wobble while straightening up. Catching your balance with a little laugh. You’re halfway across the roof before you realize that the feeling across your knuckles is from where his gloved hand had pressed until you’d righted yourself. 

That music has been looping through your mind since before you got up here and now you let your body sway along with it. You’re drunker than you realized but you’ve lived and fought in this body for long enough that it doesn’t much matter. There’s instinct and memory to rely on and you move in slow arcs and with sweeping steps, your arms outstretched as though settling around an invisible body. 

This time you don’t hear him approach. Leather (Is it leather? It’s not like anything you’ve ever felt) closes around your raised hand and you immediately grab onto it. You pull and he pulls and there’s a moment of rearrangement before you’re slotted hip to hip in each other’s space. There’s no pause or contest to see who is going to lead because it isn’t that kind of dance. His hand is in yours, or yours is in his, your arms are a twining tangle. There’s a muffled sensation on your shoulder blade. The fabric of his coat is rougher than you expected and you pluck at a pill of fabric, flicking it away. 

It starts something like a waltz as you become accustomed to each other’s movement. There are a few close calls with knees and missteps but no toes are stomped. Gravel crunches underfoot and together your strides grow bolder, longer, the pair of you sweeping each other across the roof. Together you skid to a stop, sway, and immediately reverse direction. You _galavant_. _Palisade_. With long almost running strides that are nearly tripping and stumbling so you have to go faster to stay upright. There's a manic thrill to the unchecked exuberance and you laugh as you try to catch your breath. But now Emet-Selch’s hand is on the small of your back to keep you close and you realize you have to look _up_ at him because his shoulders are back, spine straight. 

He looks different from this angle. Like he’s one of those carvings that change depending on the lighting and the direction you view it from. You can’t decide what that expression is but there’s a hint of concentration there. And there’s a softness to his stare that you hadn’t expected. Not that you have a lot of time to study it.

The grip on your hand tightens before he grabs the back of your shirt and wrenches you around. You’re spun out, skipping along at your momentum until you reach the end of your clasped hands. Before you can catch your balance he winds you back in and you nearly slam into his chest as you’re yanked into position. You know this dance too and heat floods your cheeks at the audacity. 

He’s in your space, moving you through slow steps like he’s teaching you to walk. It’s responsive, the way you pivot on one toe, the other foot weaving between his legs while he stalks slowly across the space. You’re the pennant at the end of a chain. A handkerchief clasped in waving fingers. You swivel to the side and he lets go of you for a moment before both of his hands grasp your waist to turn you fast, pulling you back face to face with him. 

The instep of your boot drags up the back of his calf as he dips you, leaning over your reclined body. Hooking your ankle around the back of his knee you catch your breath while the rush of vertigo and slosh of wine spin your vision and you clasp onto his arm for support, staring wide-eyed into his smug face. You can feel his shoulder roll beneath your fingers and you tighten your grip. His hand is under your thigh and sliding behind your knee, hiking your leg up inches higher with only his other arm curled around you to hold you up off the ground. 

“Don’t drop me.” You meant it as a joke but there’s a furtiveness to your whisper. It’s a plea that would annoy you if you weren’t so drunk, so weary, so exhilarated. You feel buffeted by this place and by him. He _is_ this place. 

He smiles at you and for once it’s not mocking or humoring or bitter. You don’t detect sarcasm lurking in the expression but he’s truly impossible to read. There are so many levels to his complexity - like the wine he’d shared with you. Like the dance you crafted together. Like the music that sings in your marrow.

“Dear hero...” As he straightens up he pulls you with him, drawing you upright and lowering your leg to the ground. You have your footing again but you feel more unbalanced than ever. Emet-Selch releases his grip on you but he doesn’t step away. Your hand slides off of his shoulder, dropping to your side like you’re clutching an anchor but you don’t back away either. 

For a long moment there’s only silence and stillness. If there’s music you can’t hear it past the rushing of blood in your ears from your pulse hammering inside your chest. In turn he regards you with a degree of thoughtful care you would ascribe to chirurgeons tending to the sick. A gardener prepared to prune back a rosebush for the turn of the seasons.

Again he lifts his hand. Palm up in offering. It takes effort and a long moment for your will to let you reach up and settle your grip around his. He doesn’t seem as tall. Not as rigid. Like he’s slumping back into his shell again. His voice is closer to your ear as you draw into each other’s space. 

“I would never.” His words curl across your skin - a promise or a threat you can’t be certain. Once more you fall into step together, the music of Amaurot keeping pace as you swirl across the rooftop. 

This time he leads. And you think nothing of it.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time posting on AO3 and really the first fic I've ever written. It was mostly just a study in style and writing in second person. Thanks so much for reading!


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